


Crazy

by Severina



Category: Oz (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-29
Updated: 2009-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He falls asleep thinking of Marion, but still awakens with Chris's name on his lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crazy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luci_2](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=luci_2).



> Season Six AU.  
> Prompt 26: Love's A Crazy Game (LJ's Hardtime100 Community)  
> Canon up to part of Toby's "socks" visit to Chris, all AU after that. Well, and I guess it's technically AU before that, but not in MY head. Some dialogue from the "socks" visit taken from S6, Ep.5, "4giveness".   
> Thanks to ozsaur for all her help.  
> Written for luci_2 for Xmas 2009.

Toby arrives for his appointment shortly before seven. The Academy seems smaller than he remembers it, but the paint on the walls in the junior section seems brighter, a vibrant, headache-inducing yellow that almost makes him nauseous. He keeps his eyes straight ahead and strides purposefully down the hallway, past a row of pinned up paintings that illustrate the theme of "Family". Holly will have a painting posted there, he knows, but he doesn't want to find it. He isn't quite ready to see what his little girl has deemed 'family' in the years that he's been gone.

"Are you sure you don't want me to--"

"She's my daughter," Toby says reasonably.

Angus sighs. "I know that. It's just that Mother and I have been trading off on these Parent-Teacher conferences, and--"

"And now you don't have to do that anymore," Toby says firmly, "because I'm home." He halts next to one of the child-sized water fountains, rests a hand gently on his brother's arm. "I know how much you've done for me since my arrest. There's no way that I can ever repay you."

"This isn't about that," Angus insists.

"I know. It's just…" Toby shakes his head, smiles ruefully. "You have no idea how grateful I am that this is actually hard on you."

Angus blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Don't you see? It means you made Holly a part of your family while I was gone. For a little while, she became _your_ daughter."

Angus nods.

"But she's not yours, Angus. She's mine. And now that I'm back, I intend to fulfil every responsibility to her that I have. I'm never going to shirk that again."

"You didn't shirk--"

"If there's one thing I learned in prison, it's to take responsibility for your actions. At least up here," Toby points at his head, "and in here," a second gesture to his heart, "where it counts. I worked too much and I drank too much, and the kids and Genevieve suffered for it. Now I'm setting up the advocacy program at Oz that will be structured to take advantage of my time, not the other way around, and I'm never drinking again." He grins. "No matter how enjoyable a dry martini might taste right about now."

Angus returns his grin. "Miss Kensington is a real treasure. You'll do fine."

"Sure." Toby takes a deep breath. "I faced down Vern Schillinger and lived to tell the tale. How bad can one second grade teacher be?"

Their heads turn in unison when a door opens across the hall, and Toby's eyes widen just slightly at the slim, fashionably dressed blonde who escorts a smiling couple into the corridor. She says something to the woman, red-accented lips barely moving, before turning toward the two men.

"Mr. Beecher?" Marion Kensington smiles. "Please, come in. I've looked forward to meeting you."

* * *

Their first date is at Marciano's. Toby remembers when he and Genevieve had a standing reservation at the restaurant every Friday night, always the same table, the best table, next to the bay window with a view of the light-strewn courtyard. Genevieve would exclaim over the illumination on every visit, just as Marcus would be effusive in his admiration of her dress or hair or some bauble around her neck as he pulled Genevieve's chair out and settled her in at the table. At the time Toby had felt exasperation for her, contempt for him. But in his memory these moments have taken on a sense of nostalgic sweetness.

Despite Toby's fears, there is very little sense of déjà vu this night. Marcus seats them at a table in the center of the restaurant, and Marion carries herself with a sense of assuredness in her surroundings that was always lacking in Genevieve.

They make small talk over appetizers, and Toby sips his water and tries not to greedily eye Marion's glass of red wine.

"The food here is delicious," Marion says a few minutes after their waiter has presented the entrees with a flourish. She takes another miniscule bite of her steak, arches one perfectly manicured brow. "Not what you're used to, I'd imagine."

Toby blinks, looks up from his salmon. "Pardon me?"

"I'm tired of ignoring the elephant in the room, Tobias."

Toby swallows, puts his knife down carefully on his plate. His hand wants to curl up into a fist, so he deliberately places it palm down on the white linen tablecloth. "I was in prison. I did something terrible, something… unforgivable. But I did my time. If you have a problem with that--"

Marion shakes her head, blonde hair bobbing, and reaches across the table to lay a hand gently over his. "If I did, I wouldn't be here," she says. "I just want you to know that I'm here to listen. I'd _like_ to hear about it, if you'd care to tell me."

Her hand is warm against his, her eyes soft and indistinct in the candlelight. He reluctantly pulls his hand away. "I can't," he says as kindly as he is able.

Marion's lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Whenever you're ready," she says.

Later, he walks her to her door. And when he hesitates at the threshold, she steps readily forward, cups his cheek with one smooth palm and presses her lips lightly to his. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of her, stands goofily grinning when she moves away. Marion licks her lips, and his cock twitches in response.

"Good night, Tobias," she says over her shoulder as she closes the door.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and smiles his way to the car, replaying in his mind the way her hand had cooled the heat of his skin, the softness of her palm, the sweet smell of perfumed lotion. So… different from what he has been used to. His heart swells at such a simple thing as touch.

He falls asleep thinking of Marion, but still awakens with Chris's name on his lips.

* * *

They take Holly to the park on a Saturday. Toby puts her on the carousel, stands close to Marion while Holly spins round and round. Marion lays her head on his shoulder, and after a moments uncertainty Toby eases his arm around her waist. He thinks that to anyone watching they must appear to be the perfect American family living the perfect American dream.

"You missed so much of her life," Marion murmurs.

Toby stiffens. Anyone watching would be sadly mistaken.

She asks whether his children ever visited him, and he tells her, in short stilted sentences, about pulling Holly into his lap in the visiting room and reading her stories, even as his mind drifts to Angus lying on the floor in a pool of blood, of begging his father to take his daughter away, to keep her safe.

She senses his reticence, lifts her head from his shoulder and bites at her bottom lip. "There's more," she says.

"Trouble with another inmate," he says. Watching Holly smile as she rides past them on her painted pony, he lifts a hand to wave at his beautiful little girl. Safe now. "It's in the past."

*

Toby returns from the bathroom to find Marion deep in conversation with Senator Bloombeck and his party.

"They say that Katarina Novikov may be joining the troupe for a few shows next season," Marion says.

"Oh, I saw her two years ago at the Winter Garden," the Senator's wife enthuses. "Such a spritely little thing."

Marion nods, takes Toby's hand to draw him into the conversation. "Did you see her, Tobias?" she asks. Tiny frown lines appear between her eyes when she realizes her mistake. "No, I'm sorry, of course you didn't."

Toby tries for levity. "I was otherwise detained," he says, and watches as the Senator's eyes shift away, as his wife's mouth quirks into a sour expression that she tries valiantly to mask. The group quickly breaks apart after that. Not even the hefty donation that the Beecher money provided to attend the fundraiser can entice the Bloombecks to willingly fraternize with an ex-con.

Marion repeats her apology later, pressing her body against his arm as they stroll through the landscaped gardens at the Senator's estate. When she turns her face to his, looks at him so fondly, he is certain that she meant no harm. And being shunned by yet another society set means nothing to him. He's been rejected by Chris Keller and come through almost unscathed.

*

"Pass me the oregano," Marion says.

Toby scowls at the tiny jars lined neatly in the spice rack, leans down to squint at Marion's neat little scrawl on the labels. When the arm comes out of nowhere, he slaps out a hand and slides instinctively into a defensive crouch, hisses in a breath and bares his teeth.

Marion clutches at her forearm, eyes wide and gleaming. "Tobias," she breathes.

Toby blinks as the reddish form of his backhand blooms on Marion's pale arm, swipes a hand over his face. "I… oh shit. I'm sorry. Marion. Forgive me. Please. I…"

"It's okay," she soothes. "What happened there?"

"It's just…" Toby takes a breath, pushes away from the counter to stalk to the wide French doors. He watches a family of sparrows converge at the birdbath in Marion's yard, wonders if he'll ever feel that free. Finally he faces her again. "I'm… still not used to sharing my space."

"I know," Marion says. She crosses the room, raises a hand and lets it hang in the air. "What happened _there_?" she asks again.

"Marion." The thought of telling her makes his chest constrict, his breathing become shallow. Yet there is a part of him that thinks he is supposed to tell her, that if they are to mean anything to one another they can't have these missing years between them.

She flattens her palm, fingers splayed wide, small and delicate against the planes of his chest. Looks up at him from behind long lashes. "Tell me," she says.

He does.

*

They make love one week later, on a Saturday afternoon. Tobias has taken great pains to ensure that his mother is out of the house, has hustled her and Holly to Angus and Maggie's place for the entire weekend and knows his little brother is going to make him pay dearly for it. He has planned an elaborate dinner, to be followed by soft slow jazz in the great room, maybe some dancing by candlelight. He imagines Marion melting under his touch, and pretends that his palms aren't damp and his stomach isn't doing flip-flops while he waits for her to arrive.

He greets her in the circular drive, hangs her sweater on the coat rack, and gives her a tour of the house. When he reaches his bedroom she takes his hand and throws all his painstaking plans into disarray by leading him to the bed.

He's forgotten how soft women can be, how fragile. He tries to go slowly, rediscovering the pleasure of rounded curves, of scented skin. His mouth finds her breast, and he takes one peaked nipple into his mouth, revels in the feel of her arching her back beneath him while her hands seek out his skin. Her fingers edge lightly along his shaft, and Toby hisses in a breath and rises up, skims kisses across her neck.

When he slides carefully inside her he tries to imagine that it feels like coming home, and he thrusts slowly, wanting to thoroughly experience every movement, every moment. Wants to make it last.

He freezes when Marion's questing fingers brush up against the scar on his side.

She pulls him closer, her breath warm against his neck. "Here," she purrs. "From the shank."

Toby stills and clamps a hand over hers, winds their fingers together and draws her hand to her chest. His heart is stuttering loudly, but no longer from the heat that had risen between them. He dips his head, closes his eyes, tries to get his breathing under control. Tries to get everything under control. Swallows before opening his eyes to look at her again.

Marion slides her tongue along her bottom lip slowly. He realizes that she says the word 'shank' like it tastes sweet, like honey on her tongue.

"Marion," he chokes out.

When her other hand finds his ass, when a sharp nail scratches eagerly at the brand, traces the edges of scarred flesh, he has to grit his teeth to hold back the growl of anger, of frustration, of the bitter taste of disillusionment that coats his tongue like ash.

Toby's lips twist in a grimace as he grabs at her, pushes her away, and a part of him realizes that she'll bear his marks later, dark smudges on the delicate flesh of her wrist. He wonders if she'll rub her fingers over them, if her eyes will close and her breathing deepen as she remembers.

Now, she blinks up at him, her face flushed with desire. "Tobias, what's wrong?"

His hands clench into fists as he takes a step away from the bed, nearly trips on the tangled blankets on the floor before righting himself. He clamps his throat closed over all the things he wants to say, breathes deeply through his nose and shakes from the sheer effort of holding himself together.

"Tobias?" Marion tries a tentative smile, reaches out a hand.

Toby lifts his chin. "Get out," he says.

* * *

Toby dials the temperature up hot, hotter than he can normally handle, and simply stands under the shower for a long time, palms flat against the cool ceramic, letting the water pound against his bowed head. He names himself seven kinds of fool.

He'd wanted to believe. Because Marion was young and pretty and well-educated, like Genevieve had been. Because she would fit in at charity balls and late-night dinners at supper clubs. Because she looked at him like he was a man, not a convict.

She promised normalcy, and he craved that more than heroin, more than alcohol. Almost more than he craved Chris Keller.

So when she made a point to continually, constantly, relentlessly remind him of his past, picking at it like a scab, he could tell himself that she merely wanted to know all of him. He could ignore the way her breathing deepened the first time he mentioned Schillinger. He could pretend he didn't see the way her tongue poked out from between her perfect white teeth, how her eyes gleamed with predatory lust at his tales of humiliation and degradation. Could pretend that she hadn't circled the details of his incarceration like a shark around blood-crusted waters, eager for the kill.

He's always been good at fooling himself.

He forces himself out of the shower when the water runs cold, wraps a towel around his waist and stands dripping at the bathroom door. Listens for a long time, forehead pressed against the wood. Finally he squares his shoulders and pushes through into the bedroom.

Marion is gone.

Toby lets out a quivering breath. He's grateful that he never told her about Chris. He had kept his relationship with Keller close to his heart, where it belongs.

* * *

Socks. He brought Chris socks.

Toby tries not to wince as he watches Chris change into them, tries not to think about the three hours he spent wandering around a department store trying to decide what to bring Chris on this first meeting in the visiting room. He'd picked up and ultimately rejected so many items, finally settling on the socks as a last resort. Practical and not too personal, they'd seemed perfect. He realizes now that they're something that a mother would bring.

He hates those damn socks.

Chris asks him about life on the outside, and he answers by rote. He tries to focus on the questions and on Chris and the way Chris's body moves. Not on the way his turtleneck is choking him, or the hour he spent prior to the drive to Oz, pulling everything out of his closet and his bureau drawers in an attempt to find something to wear that looked sleek and sexy.

He hates the stupid turtleneck.

"And Holly's teacher," Chris says, "how's she?"

The question draws him out of his reverie, and he huffs out a breath. "Why do you ask that?"

Chris shrugs before taking his seat. "I don't know. You're the one who's mentioned her a couple of times."

Toby leans forward on the table. "You know, actually," he says, "to be honest, Chris--"

"Yes," Chris interrupts, "let's be honest."

Toby knows that telling Chris what happened with Marion won't be easy. He takes a breath, meets Chris's eyes. "Marion and I have been dating," he says.

"You fuck her yet?"

Toby blinks, shakes his head, barely hears Chris's question as he shifts uneasily in his chair. We've been _dating_? He has no idea where that came from. He flashes back to the scrap of paper he had found on the oak table in the foyer, a page ripped from Marion's school day-planner, little cartoon kittens tumbling along the margin. Marion's left-slanted letters nearly tearing through the paper, accusing him of acting crazy, placing all the blame for everything squarely on his shoulders. Deceitful little bitch.

"Chris," he manages to get out.

"Be honest," Chris says.

Toby takes another breath. Honesty, he thinks, is the foundation of every relationship. He's going to start being honest right fucking now.

"Yes," he answers.

"Good for you, you sexy motherfucker."

"No," Toby says quickly. "You don't understand."

"I think I do."

"You don't," Toby says firmly. "Everything has been fucked up beyond belief. I thought I could just get out and go back to my job and my family and my kids, and just pick up everything where I left off. And it doesn't work that way. Oh, everyone at the firm is nice enough, but no one will look me in the eye. Holly either clings to me or wants nothing to do with me, and to Harry I'm a stranger. My mother wants to pretend that Oz never existed. And Marion…" He shrugs helplessly. "Marion was one big clusterfuck of a mistake. Except for one thing."

Chris nods. "The sex."

Toby huffs out a laugh. "Being with her reminded me of what I really want."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Acceptance. Candour. Loyalty.

"You," Toby says simply. "I might be crazy--"

"No argument here."

"--but I love you. I want you, Chris. No one else."

Chris tries to keep his face carefully blank, but Toby has learned how to read the man's eyes. He sees the hope kindled there, before Chris closes everything down, drops the mask firmly in pace and sprawls back in the chair. "You better get used to your hand then," he says, " 'cause that ain't gonna happen."

"I've been thinking about your defence," Toby says.

"We changing the subject now, Tobe?"

"No," Toby says. "I think we've got a good case."

"You hit your head on the way over here?" Chris asks. "My defence is done. We won, Toby. Death Row is history."

"I'm talking about your current case," Toby says. "Eighty-eight years is an unusually long sentence for the nature of your crime."

"I killed someone," Chris says sharply.

"So did I," Toby replies evenly. He reaches down and snags his briefcase from the floor, drops it on the table. "I want to put through an appeal."

Chris crosses his arms at his chest, his eyes flicking briefly to the slim leather case before lighting on Toby's face. "What's this about?"

"As your legal advocate, we'd be entitled to a private room for one hour a week," Toby says. "To discuss your case."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Chris's face blooms in a slow smile. "If you ever used your powers for good, you could rule the fucking world."

"I don't want the world," Toby says. "Just you."

Chris licks his lips. "Can we really do this?"

Toby reaches for the briefcase, his fingers dancing nimbly over the lock even as his heart trip-hammers its way through his chest and his smile stretches so wide he thinks his cheeks may split wide open. "There's just some papers for you to sign," he says.

Chris lays a hand over his, stilling the movement. "Toby," he says. "Can we really do this?"

Toby sobers. "I don't know," he says. "The sentence _is_ unduly harsh. There are several legal precedents… and there was no intent to kill on your part. There's no way to get your sentence overturned," he admits. "But there's a very good chance of getting it reduced."

"No shit."

"I don't want to get your hopes up," Toby says. "There's a _chance_. I'm not giving up until we've exhausted every option. And in the meantime…" he shrugs. Arches a brow.

"Private room."

"Private room," Toby agrees with a grin.

Chris's hand closes over his, squeezes in a crushing grip. "I love you, Toby," he breathes.

Toby remembers Chris's hand on his nape, drawing him into an embrace, strong arms holding him while he trembled under the onslaught of devastating memories. Remembers gaining strength from Chris's touch. Remembers Chris's warm breath ghosting across his skin. Remembers Chris's lips moving softly over his body, over all of him, accepting each part -- every dimple and scar, even the brand -- as simply part of him, the whole, all to be loved in equal measure.

"I know, Chris," Toby says. "I know."


End file.
